THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK, 

AND    OTHER   POEMS. 

BY 

JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY. 


THIRD  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1884. 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


•ps 

«2<f 
57? 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK 9 

THE  FAME  OF  THE  CITY 22 

HEART-HUNGER 24 

MULEY  MALEK,  THE  KING 27 

REMORSE 35 

FROM  THE  EARTH,  A  CRY 37 

PROMETHEUS  —  CHRIST 45 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 53 

HER  REFRAIN 60 

A  SAVAGE 62 

LOVE'S  SECRET 64 

LOVE'S  SACRIFICE 66 

THE  WELL'S  SECRET 69 

JACQUEMINOTS       72 

LIVING 75 

THE  CELEBES 78 

WAITING 80 

WHEAT  GRAINS 83 

THE  LURE 86 

THE  EMPTY  NICHE 87 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS 91 

THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  CHAINS 99 


POEMS. 


Life  is  a  certainty, 

Death  is  a  doubt; 
Men  may  be  dead 

While  they  're  walking  about. 
Love  is  as  needful 

20  being  as  breath ; 
Loving  is  dreaming,  — 

And  waking  is  death. 


THE   STATUES  IN  THE   BLOCK. 

"  T     OVE  is  the  secret  of  the  world,"  he  said ; 

"  The  cup  we  drain  and  still  desire  to  drink. 
The  loadstone  hungers  for  the  steel ;  the  steel, 
Inert  amid  a  million  stones,  responds  to  this. 
So  yearn  and  answer  hearts  that  truly  love  : 
Once  touch  their  life-spring,  it  vibrates  to  death  ; 
And  twain  athrill  as  one  are  nature-wed." 

But  silent  stood  the  three  who  heard,  nor  smiled 
Nor  looked  agreement.     Strangers  these  who  stood 
Within  a  Roman  studio  —  still  young, 
But  sobered  each  with  that  which  follows  joy 
At  life's  fresh  forenoon,  and  the  eye  of  each 


10         THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

Held  deep  within  a  restless  eager  light, 
As  gleams  a  diamond  in  a  darkened  room 
With  radiance  hoarded  from  the  vanished  sun. 

"  The  meteor-stone  is  dense  and  dark  in  space, 
But  bursts  in  flame  when  through  the  air  it  rushes  ; 
And  our  dull  life  is  like  an  aerolite 
That  leaps  to  fire  within  the  sphere  of  love." 
Unchecked  his  mood  ran  on :  "  Sweet  amorous  hours 
That  lie  in  years  as  isles  in  tropic  seas, 
You  spring  to  view  as  Art  is  born  of  Love, 
And  shape  rich  beauties  in  this  marble  block  !  " 

Before  them  rose  within  the  shaded  light 
A  tall  and  shapely  mass  of  Alp-white  crystal 
Fresh  from  the  heart  of  a  Carrara  quarry. 

"  Opaque  to  you  this  marble  ;  but  to  me, 
Whose  eyes  the  chrism  of  passion  has  anointed, 
The  stone  is  pregnant  with  a  life  of  love. 
Within  this  monolith  there  lives  a  form 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK.          II 

Which  I  can  see  and  would  reveal  to  you, 
Could  hand  and  chisel  swiftly  follow  sight. 
From  brow  to  foot  her  lissome  form  stands  forth  — 
The  ripe  lips  smiling  reached ;  with  nestling  press, 
As  round  the  sailor  frozen  in  the  berg 
The  clear  ice  closes  on  the  still  dead  face, 
The  marble,  grown  translucent,  touches  soft 
Each  comely  feature  —  rippled  hair,  and  chin, 
And  lily  sweep  of  bust  and  hip  and  limb  — 
Ah,  sweet  mouth  pouting  for  the  lips  that  cling, 
And  white  arms  raised  all  quivering  to  the  clasp  — 
Ah,  rich  throat  made  for  burning  lover's  kiss, 
And  reckless  bodice  open  to  the  swell, 
And  deep  eyes  soft  with  love's  suffusion  —  Love  ! 
O  Love  !  still  living,  memory  and  hope, 
Beyond  all  sweets  thy  bosom,  breath,  and  lips  — 
My  jewel  and  the  jewel  of  the  world  !  " 

They  stood  in  silence,  each  one  rapt  and  still, 
As  if  the  lovely  form  were  theirs  as  his, 


12         THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

Till  one  began  —  harsh  voice  and  clouded  face  — 
With  other  presence  in  his  eye  —  and  said  : 

"  Opaque  to  me  with  such  a  glow-worm  ray 

As  Love's  torch  flings  —  but,  mark,  the  dense  rock 

melts 

When  from  my  soul  on  fire  the  fiercer  beam, 
The  mighty  calcium-glare  of  hate  leaps  out 
And  eats  the  circumambient  marble  —  See  ! 
Laid  bare  as  corpse  to  keen  anatomist, 
With  every  sinuous  muscle  picked  with  shadow, 
And  every  feature  tense  with  livid  passion, 
And  all  the  frame  aheave  with  sanguine  throbs  — 
The  ecstasy  of  agonized  Revenge  ! 

0  stone,  reveal  it  —  how  my  parting  kiss 
Was  wet  upon  her  mouth  when  other  lips 
Drank  deep  the  cursed  fountain  ;  how  the  coin 

1  hung  with  rapture  'tween  her  glowing  breasts, 
And  fondly  thought  if  I  should  die  and  she 
Should  live  till  age  had  blanched  her  hair  and  flesh, 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK.         13 

This  golden  medal's  touch  would  still  have  power 

To  light  the  love-fire  in  the  faded  eyes 

And  swell  the  shrivelled  breast  to  maiden  roundness  — 

This  thought  I  nursed  —  O  Stygian  abyss  !  — 

Away  thy  picture  of  the  rippled  hair  ! 

Her  hair  was  rippled  and  her  eyes  were  deep, 

Her  breasts  and  limbs  were  white  and  lily-curved, 

But  all  the  woman,  soul  and  wondrous  flesh, 

Was  poison-steeped  and  veined  with  vicious  fire ; 

And  I,  blind  fool  who  trusted,  was  but  one 

Who  swooned  with  love  beside  her  —  But  I  drank 

The  wine  she  filled,  and  made  her  eat  the  dregs  — 

I  drenched  her  honey  with  my  sea  of  gall. 

I  see  her  in  the  marble  where  she  shrinks 

In  shuddered  fear,  as  if  my  face  were  fire  — 

Her  cowering  shadow  making  whiter  still 

The  face  of  him  that  writhes  beside  her  feet. 

I  see  him  breathe,  the  last  deep  breath,  and  turn 

His  eyes  upon  me  horror-filled  —  his  hand, 

Still  hot  with  wanton  dalliance,  clutched  hard 


14         THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

Across  the  burning  murder  in  his  side  — 

And  now  he  sinks  still  glaring  —  And  my  heart 

Is  there  between  them,  petrified,  O  God  ! 

And  pierced  by  that  red  blow  that  struck  their  guilt. 

O  balm  and  torture  !  he  must  hate  who  loves, 

And  bleed  who  strikes  to  see  thy  face,  Revenge  !  " 

Grown  deep  the  silence  for  the  words  tnat  died, 
And  paler  still  the  marble  for  its  grief. 

"  Ah,  myrrh  and  honey  !  "  spake  a  third,  whose  eyes 
Were  deep  with  sorrow  for  the  woe  ;  "  blind  hands 
That  grope  for  flowers  and  pierce  the  flesh  with  thorns 
All  love  of  woman  still  may  turn  to  hate, 
As  wine  to  bitterness,  as  noon  to  night. 
But  sweeter  far  and  deeper  than  the  love 
Of  flesh  for  flesh,  is  the  strong  bond  of  hearts 
For  suffering  Motherland  —  to  make  her  free  ! 
Love's  joy  is  short,  and  Hate's  black  triumph  bitter, 
And  loves  and  hates  are  selfish  —  save  for  thee, 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK.         15 

0  chained  and  weeping  at  thy  pillar's  foot, 
Thy  white  flesh  eaten  by  accursed  bands. 
No  love  but  thine  can  satisfy  the  heart, 
For  love  of  thee  holds  in  it  hate  of  wrong, 
And  shapes  the  hope  that  moulds  humanity  ! 
Not  mine  your  passions,  yet  I  weigh  them  well  — 
Who  loves  a  greater  sinks  all  lesser  love, 

Who  hates  a  tyrant  loses  lesser  hate. 

My  Land  !  I  see  thee  in  the  marble,  bowed 

Before  thy  tyrant,  bound  at  foot  and  wrist  — 

Thy  garments  rent  —  thy  wounded  shoulder  bare  — 

Thy  chained  hand  raised  to  ward  the  cruel  blow  — 

My  poor  love  round  thee  scarf-like,  weak  to  hide 

And  powerless  to  shield  thee  — but  a  boy 

1  wound  it  round  thee,  dearest,  and  a  man 

I  drew  it  close  and  kissed  thee  —  Mother,  wife  ! 
For  thee  the  past  and  future  days  ;  for  thee 
The  will  to  trample  wrong  and  strike  for  slaves ; 
For  thee  the  hope  that  ere  mine  arm  be  weak 
And  ere  my  heart  be  dry  may  close  the  strife 


1 6          THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

In  which  thy  colors  shall  be  borne  through  fire, 
And  all  thy  griefs  washed  out  in  manly  blood  — 
And  I  shall  see  thee  crowned  and  bound  with  love, 
Thy  strong  sons  round  thee  guarding  thee.     O  star 
That  lightens  desolation,  o'er  her  beam, 
Nor  let  the  shadow  of  the  pillar  sink 
Too  deep  within  her,  till  the  dawn  is  red 
Of  that  white  noon  when  men  shall  call  her  Queen  !  " 


The  deep  voice  quivering  with  affection  ceased, 
And  silent  each  they  saw  within  the  stone 
The  captive  nation  and  the  mother's  woe. 
Yet  while  their  hearts  the  fine  emotion  warmed, 
Ere  ebbed  the  deep-pulsed  throb  of  brotherhood, 
The  last  one  spoke,  and  held  the  wave  at  full :  — 

"  Yea,  brothers,  his  the  noblest  for  its  grief; 
Your  love  was  loss  —  but  his  was  sacrifice. 
Your  light  was  sunlight,  for  the  shallow  sense, 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

That  bends  the  eyes  on  earth  and  thinks  it  sees ; 

His  love  was  nightlike,  when  we  see  the  stars, 

Forgetting  petty  things  around  our  feet. 

Yet  here,  too,  find  his  weakness,  for  his  hope 

Is  still  for  sunlight,  and  your  shallow  sense, 

And  golden  crowns  and  queendom  for  his  love. 

I,  too,  within  the  stone  behold  a  statue, 

Far  less  than  yours,  but  greater,  for  I  know 

My  symbol  a  beginning,  not  an  end. 

O,  Grief,  with  Hope  !     The  marble  fades  —  behold  ! 

The  little  hands  still  crossed  —  a  child  in  death. 

My  link  with  love  —  my  dying  gift  from  her 

Whose  last  look  smiled  on  both,  when  I  was  left 

A  loveless  man,  save  this  poor  gift,  alone. 

My  heart  had  wound  its  tendrils  round  one  life, 

But,  when  my  joy  was  deepest,  she  was  stricken, 

And  I  was  powerless  to  save.     My  prayers 

And  piteous  cries  were  flung  against  my  face  — 

My  life  was  blighted  by  the  curse  of  Heaven  ! 

But  from  the  depths  her  love  returned  to  soothe  : 

•     2 


1 8         THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

Her  dear  hand  reached  from  death  and  placed  her 

child 

Where  she  had  lived,  within  the  riven  tendrils, 
And  firmly  these  closed  round  their  second  treasure. 
And  she,  my  new  love,  in  her  infant  hold 
Took  every  heart-string  as  her  mother's  gift, 
And    touched   such    tender    fine-strung    chords,    and 

played 

Such  music  in  my  heart  as  filled  my  life 
With  trembling  joy  and  fondness  for  the  child. 
I  feared  to  be  so  blest  —  her  baby  cheek, 
WThen  laid  on  mine,  was  Heaven's  sweetest  touch ; 
And  when  she  looked  me  in  the  eyes,  I  saw 
Her  mother  look  at  me  from  deep  within, 
And  bless  me  for  the  love  I  gave  and  won. 
Yet,  when  I  loved  her  most  she,  too,  was  doomed  : 
I  saw  it  come  upon  her  like  a  shadow, 
And  watched  the  change,  appalled  at  first,  but  set 
To  ward  the  danger  from  my  darling. 
As  day  by  day  still  failing,  grew  so  tender 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK.          19 

And  crept  so  often  to  my  heart,  as  if, 

Though  but  a  babe  who  could  not  speak  a  word, 

She  knew  full  well  my  life  would  soon  be  shattered. 

But  all  my  love  was  fruitless,  and  my  prayers 

To  leave  her  with  me  beat  the  gates  in  vain. 

I  thought  my  love  must  hold  her,  till  at  last 

I  held  the  tiny  body  like  a  leaf 

All  day  and  night  within  my  arms  ;  and  so, 

Close  nestled  to  my  yearning  heart,  Death  passed, 

As  merciless  as  God,  but  left  that  look 

Of  two  dead  loves,  as  if  Death's  self  knew  pity. 

And  I  was  lost  heart-withered  in  a  night 

That  knew  no  star  and  held  no  ray  of  hope, 

And  heard  no  word  but  my  despairing  curse 

With  lifted  hands,  at  life  and  Him  who  gave  it ! 

My  graves  were  all  I  had  —  the  little  mound 

Where  my  hands  laid  her,  with  the    sweet    young 

grass — 

The  tiny  hill  that  grew  until  the  sun 
Was  hid  behind  it,  and  I  sat  below 


20          THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 

• 

And  gnawed  my  heart  in  grief  within  its  shadow. 
So  one  day  bowed  in  woe  beside  the  grave 
The  weight  grew  deadly,  and  I  called  aloud 
That  God  should  witness  to  my  life  in  ruin. 
And  God's  word  reached  me  through  the  little  grave 
Where  in  the  grass  my  face  was  buried  weeping  — 
His  peace  came  through  it  like  a  pent-up  breath 
That  rolled  from  some  great  world  whose  gates  had 

oped, 

And  blew  upon  my  wild  and  hardened  heart, 
And  swept  my  woe  before  it  like  a  leaf. 
My  dried  heart  drank  the  meaning  of  the  peace  : 
True  love  shall  trust,  and  selfish  love  must  die, 
For  trust  is  peace,  and  self  is  full  of  pain  ; 
Arise,  and  heal  thy  brother's  grief;  his  tears 
Shall  wash  thy  love  and  it  will  live  again. 

0  little  grave,  I  thought  't  was  love  had  died, 
But  in  thy  bosom  only  lies  my  sorrow. 

1  see  my  darling  in  the  marble  now  — 

My  wasted  leaf —  her  kind  eyes  smiling  fondly, 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK.         21 

ft 

And  through  her  eyes  I  see  the  love  beyond, 
The  biding  light  that  moves  not  —  and  I  know 
That  when  God  gives  to  us  the  clearest  sight 
He  does  not  touch  our  eyes  with  Love,  but  Sorrow." 


THE  FAME  OF  THE  CITY. 

A     GREAT  rich  city  of  power  and  pride, 

With  streets  full  of  traders,  and  ships  on  the  tide  ; 
With  rich  men  and  workmen  and  judges  and  preachers, 
The  shops  full  of  skill  and  the  schools  full  of  teachers. 

The  people  were  proud  of  their  opulent  town  : 

The  rich  men  spent  millions  to  bring  it  renown ; 

The  strong  men  built  and  the  tradesmen  planned ; 

The  shipmen  sailed  to  every  land ; 

The  lawyers  argued,  the  schoolmen  taught, 

And  a  poor  shy  Poet  his  verses  brought, 

And  cast  them  into  the  splendid  store. 

The  tradesmen  stared  at  his  useless  craft ; 

The  rich  men  sneered  and  the  strong  men  laughed ; 


THE  FAME   OF  THE   CITY.  23 

The  preachers  said  it  was  worthless  quite ; 

The  schoolmen  claimed  it  was  theirs  to  write ; 

But  the  songs  were  spared,  though  they  added  nought 

To  the  profit  and  praise  the  people  sought, 

That  was  wafted  at  last  from  distant  climes  ; 

And  the  townsmen  said  :  "  To  remotest  times 

We  shall  send  our  name  and  our  greatness  down  I " 

The  boast  came  true ;  but  the  famous  town 

Had  a  lesson  to  learn  when  all  was  told  : 

The  nations  that  honored  cared  nought  for  its  gold, 

Its  skill  they  exceeded  an  hundred-fold ; 

It  had  only  been  one  of  a  thousand  more, 

Had  the  songs  of  the  Poet  been  lost  to  its  store. 

Then  the  rich  men  and  tradesmen  and  schoolmen  said 
They  had  never  derided,  but  praised  instead  ; 
And  they  boast  of  the  Poet  their  town  has  bred. 


HEART-HUNGER. 

'  I  "HERE  is  no  truth  in  faces,  save  in  children  : 

They  laugh  and  frown  and  weep  from  nature's 

keys; 

But  we  who  meet  the  world  give  out  false  notes, 
The  true  note  dying  muffled  in  the  heart. 

O,  there  be  woful  prayers  and  piteous  wailing, 
That  spirits  hear,  from  lives  that  starve  for  love  ! 
The  body's  food  is  bread ;  and  wretches'  cries 
Are  heard  and  answered  :  but  the  spirit's  food 
Is  love ;  and  hearts  that  starve  may  die  in  agony 
And  no  physician  mark  the  cause  of  death. 

You  cannot  read  the  faces ;  they  are  masks,  — 
Like  yonder  woman,  smiling  at  the  lips, 


HEART-HUNGER.  2$ 

Silk-clad,  bejewelled,  lapped  with  luxury, 

And  beautiful  and  young —  ay,  smiling  at  the  lips, 

But  never  in  the  eyes  from  inner  light : 

A  gracious  temple  hung  with  flowers  without  — 

Within,  a  naked  corpse  upon  the  stones  ! 

O,  years  and  years  ago  the  hunger  came  — 
The  desert- thirst  for  love —  she  prayed  for  love  — 
She  cried  out  in  the  night-time  of  her  soul  for  love  ! 
The  cup  they  gave  was  poison  whipped  to  froth. 
For  years  she  drank  it,  knowing  it  for  death  ; 
She  shrieked  in  soul  against  it,  but  must  drink  : 

The   skies  were  dumb  —  she    dared    not  swoon  or 

scream. 
As  Indian  mothers  see  babes  die  for  food, 

She  watched  dry-eyed  beside  her  starving  heart, 
And  only  sobbed  in  secret  for  its  gasps, 
And  only  raved  one  wild  hour  when  it  died  ! 

O  Pain,  have  pity  !     Numb  her  quivering  sense  ; 
0  Fame,  bring  guerdon  !     Thrice  a  thousand  years 


26  HEART-HUNGER. 

Thy  boy-thief  with  the  fox  beneath  his  cloak 

Has  let  it  gnaw  his  side  unmoved,  and  held  the  world ; 

And  she,  a  slight  woman,  smiling  at  the  lips, 

With  repartee  and  jest  —  a  corpse-heart  in  her  breast ! 


MULEY  MALEK,  THE   KING. 

r  I  ^HUNDER  of  guns,  and  cries  —  banners    and 

spears  and  blood  ! 
Troops'   have    died   where    they   stood    holding   the 

vantage  points  — 
They  have  raced  like  waves  at  a  wall,  and  dashed 

themselves  to  death. 

Dawn  the  fight  begin,  and  noon  was  red  with  its  noon.. 
The  armies  stretch  afar  —  and  the  plain  of  Alcazar 
Is  drenched  with  Moorish  blood. 

On  one   side,   Muley  the  King  —  Muley  Malek  the 

Strong. 
He  had  seized  the  Moorish  crown  because  it  would  fit 

his  brows. 
Hamet  the   Fair  was   king;  but   Muley  pulled  him 

down,  because  he  was  strong. 


28  MULEY  MALEK,    THE  KING. 

The  fierce  sun  glares  on  the  clouds  of  dust  and  battle 

smoke, 

The  hoarsened  soldiers  choke  in  the  blinding  heat. 
Muley  the  King  is  afield,  but  sick  to  the  death. 
Borne  on  a  litter  he  lies,  his  blood  on  fire,  his  eyes 
Flaming  with  fever  light. 

Hamah  Tabah  the  Captain,  stands  by  the  curtained  bed, 
Telling  him  news  of  the  fight  —  how  the  waves  roll  and 

rise,  and  clash  and  mingle  and  seethe. 
And   Hamah   bends  to   the  scene.     He  peers  under 

arched  hand  — 

As  an  eagle  he  stoops  to  the  field.    One  hand  on  the  hilt 
Is  white  at  the  knuckles,   so  fiercely  gripped;  while 

the  hand 
That  had  parted  the  curtains  before  now  clutches  the 

silk  and  wrings. 

Hamet's  squadrons  are  moving  in  mass  —  their  lines 

are  circling  the  plain  ! 
The  thousands  of  Muley  stand,  like  bison  dazed  by 

an  earthquake ; 


ML/LEY  MALEK,    THE  KING.  29 

They  are  stunned  by  the  thud  of  the  fight,  they  are 

deer  without  a  leader  j 
Their  charge  has  died  like  the  impulse  of  missiles  freed 

from  the  sling ; 
Their   spears   waver  like    shaken  barley,  —  they   are 

dumb-struck  and  ready  to  fly  ! 

Hamah  Tabah  the  Captain,  in  words  like  the  pouring 

of  pitch,  has  painted 
The   terrible   scene   for  the   sick   King,   and   terrible 

answer  follows. 
Up  from  the  couch  of  pain,  disdaining  the  bonds  of 

weakness ; 

Flinging  aside  disease  as  a  wrestler  flings  his  tunic  ; 
Strong  with  the  smothered  fire  of  fever,   and   fiercer 

far  than  its  flaming, 
Rises  in  mail  from  the  litter  Muley  Malek  the  King  ! 

Down  on  his  plunging  stallion,  in  the  eyes  of  the  shud 
dered  troops, 
His  bent  plume  like  a  smoke,  and  his  sword  like  a  flame, 


30  MULEY  MALEK,  THE  KING. 

Smelting  their  souls  with  his  courage,  he  rides  before 

his  soldiers ! 
They  bend  from  his  face  like  the  sun  —  their  eyes  are 

blind  with  shame  — 
They  thrill  as  a  stricken  tiger  thrills,  gathering  his  limbs 

from  a  blow ; 
They  raise  their  faces,  and  watch  him,  sworded  and 

mailed  and  strong ; 
They  watch  him,  and  shout  his  name  fiercely  —  "  Mu- 

ley,  the  King!" 

Grimly  they  close  their  ranks,  drinking  his  face  like 

wine ; 

Strength  to  the  arm  and  wrath  to  the  soul,  and  power  — 
Fuel  and  fire  he  was  —  and  the  battle  roared  like  a 

crater ! 

Back  to  the  litter,  his  face  turned  from  the  lines,  and 

fixed 
In  a  stare  like  the  faces  in  granite,  the  King 


MULEY  MALEK,    THE  KING.  31 

Rode  straight  and  strong,  holding  his  sword 

Soldierly,  gripped  on  the  thigh,  grim  as  a  king  in  iron  ! 

Stiff  in  the  saddle,  stark,  frowning  —  one  hand  is  raised, 
The  maile'd  finger  is  laid  on  the  mouth : 
"Silence!"   the  warning  said  to  Hamah  Tabah  the 
Captain. 

Help  from  his  horse  they  give,  moving  him,  still  un 
bending, 

Down  to  the  bed,  and  lay  him  within  the  curtains. 

Mutely  they  answer  his  frown,  like  ridges  of  bronze, 
and  sternly 

Again  is  the  mailed  hand  raised  and  laid  on  the  lips 
in  warning : 

"Silence!'1''  it  said,  and  the  meaning  smote  through 
their  blood  like  flame, 

As  the  tremor  passed  through  his  armor  and  the  gray- 
ness  crept  o'er  his  features  — 

Muley  the  King  was  dead  ! 


32  MULEY  MALEK,    THE  KING. 

Furious  the  struggle  and  long,  the  armies  with  teeth 

aclench 
And  dripping  weapons  shortened,  like  athletes  whose 

blows  have  killed  pain. 
The  soldiers  of  Hamet  were  flushed  —  but  the  spirit  of 

Muley  opposed  them ; 
The  weak  of  Muley  grew  strong  when  they  looked  at 

the  curtained  litter. 
Their  thought  of  the  King  was  wine  in  the  thirst  of 

the  fight ; 
They  saw  that  Hamah  was  there,  still  bending  over  the 

bed; 
Holding  the  curtains  wide  and  taking  the  order  that 

came 
From  the  burning  lips  of  the  King,  and  sending  it 

down  to  his  soldiers ; 
They  knew  that  Hamah  the  Captain  was  telling  him 

of  the  onset, 
How  they  swept  like  hail  on  the  fields,  and  left  them 

like  sickled  grain. 


MULEY  MALEK,   THE  KING.  33 

Back,  as  the  waves  in  a  tempest  are  flung  from  a  cliff 

and  scattered, 
Burst  and  horribly  broken  and  driven  beneath  with 

the  impact, 
Shivered,  for  once  and  forever,  the  conquered  forces ; 

King  Hamet 
Was  slain  by  the  sword,  and  the  foreign  monarch  who 

helped  him, 

And  the  plain  was  swept  by  the  besom  of  death  : 
There  never  was  grander  faith  in  a  king  ! 

Trophies  and  victors'  crowns,  bring  them  to  bind  his 

brow  ! 
Circle  his  curtained  bed  —  thousands  and  thousands, 

come  ! 
It  will  cure  him,  and  kill  his  pain  —  we  must  see  him 

to-night  again  : 
One  glance  of  his  love  and  pride  for  all  the  hosts  that 

died  — 
To  his  bedside  —  come  ! 

3 


34  MULEY  MALEK,    THE  KING. 

Rigid,  with  frowning  brow,  his  finger  laid  on  his  lips, 
They  saw  him  —  saw  him  and  knew,  and  read  the 

word  that  he  spake, 
Stronger  than  death,  and  they  stood  in  their  tears, 

and  were  silent, 
Obeying  the  King ! 


REMORSE. 

T  REMEMBER  when  I  was  a  boy 

That  a  grown  girl  wanted  to  kiss  me ; 
And  I  struggled,  was  angry,  and  shy, 
And  ran  off  when  she  tried  to  caress  me. 

And  I  Ve  thought  of  that  day  through  the  years ; 

(What  a  moral,  my  friend,  lies  in  this  !) 
Under  every  sweet  leaf  that  appears 

Lurks  a  pain  for  the  loss  of  that  kiss. 


The  Infinite  always  is  silent; 

It  is  only  the  Finite  speaks. 
Our  words  are  the  idle  wave-caps 

On  the  deep  that  never  breaks. 
We  may  question  with  wand  of  science. 

Explain,  decide,  and  discuss  ; 
But  only  in  meditation 

The  Mystery  speaks  to  us. 


FROM  THE  EARTH,  A  CRY. 

"  The  Years  of  Our  Lord  "  1870  to  1880.  —  The  Rulers  of  Prussia 
and  France  make  War.  —  The  Paris  Commune.  —  War  for  Rome 
between  the  Pope  and  the  King  of  Italy.  —  War  between  Russia 
and  Turkey.  —  England  devastates  Abyssinia,  Ashantee,  and  Zulu- 
land. —  One  English  Viceroy  in  India  murdered.  Another  shot  at. — 
Socialists  attempt  to  kill  the  Emperor  of  Germany.  —  Internationalists 
fire  at  the  King  of  Italy.  —  Nihilists  thrice  attempt  to  destroy  the 
Czar.  —  The  Mines  of  Siberia  rilled  with  Political  Prisoners.  —  The 
Farmers  of  Ireland  rebel  in  Despair  against  Rack-rents.  —  The  Work 
men  of  England  emigrating  from  Starvation.  —  The  Land  of  England, 
Scotland,  and  Ireland  held  by  less  than  a  Quarter  of  a  Million  of 
Men.  —  The  Pittsburg  Riots.  —  The  American  Strikes.  —The  End  of 
the  Decade. 

/~^AN  the  earth  have  a  voice?    Can  the  clods  have 

speech, 

To  murmur  and  rail  at  the  demigods  ? 
Trample  them  !     Grind  their  vulgar  faces  in  the  clay  ! 

The  earth  was  made  for  lords  and  the  makers  of  law ; 
For  the  conquerors  and  the  social  priests ; 


38  FROM  THE  EARTH,  A    CRY. 

For  traders   who    feed    on   and  foster  the   complex 

life; 

For  the  shrewd  and  the  selfish  who  plan  and  keep ; 
For  the  heirs  who  squander  the  hoard  that  bears 
The  face  of  the  king,  and  the  blood  of  the  serf, 
And  the  curse  of  the  darkened  souls  ! 

O  Christ !  and  O  Christ !     In  thy  name  the  law  ! 

In  thy  mouth  the  mandate  !     In  thy  loving  hand  the 

whip  ! 
They  have  taken  thee  down  from  thy  cross  and  sent 

thee  to  scourge  the  people  ; 
They  have  shod  thy  feet  with  spikes  and  jointed  thy 

dead  knees  with  iron, 
And  pushed  thee,  hiding  behind,  to  trample  the  poor 

dumb  faces  ! 

The  spheres  make  music  in  space.     They  swing 
Like   fiery  cherubim    on    their  paths,   circling   their 
suns, 


FROM  THE  EARTH,  A    CRY.  39 

Mysterious,  weaving  the  irrevealable, 

Full  of  the  peace  of  unity  —  sphere  and  its  life  at 

one  — 
Humming  their  lives  of  love  through  the  limitless  waste 

of  creation. 

God  !  thou  hast  made  man  a  test  of  Thyself ! 

Thou  hast  set  in  him  a  heart  that  bleeds  at  the  cry  of 

the  helpless : 

Through  Thine  infinite  seas  one  world  rolls  silent, 
Moaning  at  times  with  quivers  and  fissures  of  blood ; 
Divided,  unhappy,  accursed  ;  the  lower  life  good, 
But  the  higher  life  wasted  and  split,  like  grain  with  a 

cankered  root. 

Is  there  health' in  thy  gift  of  life,  Almighty? 
Is  there  grief  or  compassion  anywhere  for  the  poor  ? 
If  these  be,  there  is  guerdon  for  those  who  hate  the 

wrong 

And  leap  naked  on  the  spears,  that  blood  may  cry 
For  truth  to  come,  and  pity,  and  Thy  peace. 


40  FROM  THE  EARTH,   A    CRY. 

The  human  sea  is  frozen  like  a  swamp ;  and  the  kings 

And  the  heirs  and  the  owners  ride  on  the  ice  and 
laugh. 

Their  war-forces,  orders,  and  laws  are  the  crusted  field 
of  a  crater, 

And  they  stamp  on  the  fearful  rind,  deriding  its  flesh- 
like  shudder. 

Lightning !  the  air  is  split,  the  crater  bursts,  and  the 

breathing 

Of  those  below  is  the  fume  and  fire  of  hatred. 
The  thrones  are  stayed  with  the  courage  of  shotted 

guns.    The  warning  dies. 
But  queens  are  dragged  to  the  block,  and  the  knife  of 

the  guillotine  sinks 
In  the  garbage  of  pampered  flesh  that  gluts  its  bed  and 

its  hinges. 

Silence  again,  and  sunshine.  The  gaping  lips  are 
closed  on  the  crater. 


FROM   THE  EARTH,  A    CRY.  41 

The  dead  are  below,  and  the  landless,  and  those  who 

live  to  labor 
And   grind  forever  in  gloom  that  the  privileged  few 

may  live. 

But  the  silence  is  sullen,  not  restful.     It  heaves  like  a 

sea,  and  frets, 
And  beats  at  the  roof  till  it  finds  another  vent  for  its 

fury. 
Again  the  valve  is  burst  and  the  pitch-cloud  rushes,  — 

the  old  seam  rends  anew  — 
Where  the  kings  were  killed  before,  their  names  are 

hewed  from  the  granite  — 
Paris,  mad   hope   of  the   slave-shops,  flames   to   the 

petroleuse  ! 

Tiger  that  tasted  blood  —  Paris  that  tasted  freedom  ! 
Never,  while  steel  is  cheap  and  sharp,  shall  thy  king- 
lings  sleep  without  dreaming  — 
Never,  while   souls   have   flame,  shall  their  palaces 

crush  the  hovels. 


42  FROM  THE  EARTH,  A    CRY. 

Insects  and  vermin,  ye,  the  starving  and  dangerous 

myriads, 
List  to  the  murmur  that  grows  and  growls  !     Come 

from  your  mines  and  mills, 
Pale-faced  girls  and  women  with  ragged  and  hard-eyed 

children, 
Pour  from  your  dens  of  toil  and  filth,  out  to  the  air  of 

heaven  — 
Breathe  it  deep,  and  hearken  !    A  Cry  from  the  cloud 

or  beyond  it, 
A  Cry  to  the  toilers  to  rise,  to  be  high  as  the  highest 

that  rules  them, 
To  own  the  earth  in  their  lifetime  and  hand  it  down 

to  their  children  ! 


Emperors,  stand  to  the  bar  !     Chancellors,  halt  at  the 

barracks  ! 
Landlords  and  Lawlords  and  Tradelords,  the  spectres 

you  conjured  have  risen  — 


FROM  THE  EARTH,  A    CRY.  43 

Communists,  Socialists,  Nihilists,  Rent-rebels,  Strikers, 

behold  ! 
They  are  fruit  of  the  seed  you  have  sown  —  God  has 

prospered  your  planting.     They  come 
From  the  earth,  like  the  army  of  death.    You  have 

sowed  the  teeth  of  the  dragon  ! 
Hark  to  the  bay  of  the  leader !    You  shall  hear  the 

roar  of  the  pack 
As  sure  as  the  stream  goes  seaward.    The  crust  on 

the  crater  beneath  you 
Shall  crack  and  crumble  and  sink,  with  your  laws  and 

rules 
That  breed  the  million  to  toil  for  the  luxury  of  the 

ten  — 
That  grind  the  rent  from  the  tiller's  blood  for  drones 

to  spend  — 
That  hold  the  teeming  planet  as  a  garden  plot  for  a 

thousand  — 
That  draw  the  crowds  to  the  cities  from  the  healthful 

fields  and  woods  — 


44  FROM  THE  EARTH,   A    CRY, 

That    copulate    with    greed    and    beget  disease   and 

crime  — 
That  join  these  two  and  their  offspring,  till  the  world 

is  filled  with  fear, 

And  falsehood  wins  from  truth,  and  the  vile  and  cun 
ning  succeed, 
And  manhood  and  love  are  dwarfed,  and  virtue  and 

friendship  sick, 
And  the  law  of  Christ  is  a  cloak  for  the  corpse  that 

stands  for  Justice  ! 
—  As  sure  as  the  Spirit  of  God  is  Truth,  this  Truth 

shall  reign, 
And  the  trees  and  lowly  brutes  shall  cease  to  be  higher 

than  men. 
God  purifies  slowly  by  peace,  but  urgently  by  fire. 


PROMETHEUS  —  CHRIST. 


T     ASHED  to  the  planet,  glaring  at  the  sky, 
An  eagle  at  his  heart  —  the  Pagan  Christ 


Why  is  it,  Mystery  ?    O,  dumb  Darkness,  why 
Have  always  men,  with  loving  hearts  themselves, 
Made  devils  of  their  gods  ? 

The  whirling  globe 

Bears  round  man's  sweating  agony  of  blood, 
That  Might  may  gloat  above  impotent  Pain  ! 

Man's  soul  is  dual  —  he  is  half  a  fiend, 
And  from  himself  he  typifies  Almighty. 


46  PROMETHEUS—  CHRIST. 

O,  poison-doubt,  the  answer  holds  no  peace  : 
Man  did  not  make  himself  a  fiend,  but  God. 

Between  them,  what  ?  Prometheus  stares 
Through  ether  to  the  lurid  eyes  of  Jove  — 
Between  them,  Darkness  ! 

But  the  gods  are  dead  — 
Ay,  Zeus  is  dead,  and  all  the  gods  but  Doubt, 
And  Doubt  is  brother  devil  to  Despair  ! 

What,  then,  for  us  ?    Better  Prometheus'  fate, 
Who  dared  the  gods,  than  insect  unbelief  — 
Better  Doubt's  fitful  flame  than  abject  nothingness ! 

O,  world  around  us,  glory  of  the  spheres  ! 
God  speaks  in  ordered  harmony  —  behold  ! 
Between  us  and  the  Darkness,  clad  in  light,  — 
Between  us  and  the  curtain  of  the  Vast,  —  two  Forms, 
And  each  is  crowned  eternally  —  and  One 


PRO  ME  THE  US  —  CHRIST.  47 

Is  crowned  with  flowers  and  tender  leaves  and  grass, 

And  smiles  benignly ;  and  the  other  One, 

With  sadly  pitying  eyes,  is  crowned  with  thorns  : 

O  Nature,  and  O  Christ,  for  men  to  love 

And  seek  and  live  by  —  Thine  the  dual  reign  — 

The  health  and  hope  and  happiness  of  men  ! 

Behold  our  faith  and  fruit ! 

What  demon  laughs  ? 

Behold  our  books,  our  schools,  our  states, 
Where  Christ  and  Nature  are  the  daily  word ; 
Behold  our  dealings  between  man  and  man, 
Our  laws  for  home,  our  treaties  for  abroad ; 
Behold  our  honor,  honesty,  and  freedom, 
And,  last,  our  brotherhood  !     For  we  are  born 
In  Christian  times  and  ruled  by  Christian  rules  ! 

Bah !     God  is  mild,  or  he  would  strike  the  world 
As  men  should  smite  a  liar  on  the  mouth. 


48  PROMETHEUS— CHRIST. 

Shame  on  the  falsehood  !     Let  us  tell  the  truth  — 
Nor  Christ  nor  Nature  rules,  but  Greed  and  Creed 
And  Caste  and  Cant  and  Craft  and  Ignorance. 
Down  to  the  dust  with  every  decent  face, 
And  whisper  there  the  lies  we  daily  live. 
O,  God  forgive  us  !     Nature  never  can ; 
For  one  is  merciful,  the  other  just. 

Let  us  confess  :  by  Nations  first  —  our  lines 
Are  writ  in  blood  and  rapine  and  revenge ; 
Conquest  and  pride  have  motive  been  and  law  — 
Christ  walks  with  us  to  hourly  crucifixion  !      • 

As  Men  ?    Would  God  the  better  tale  were  here  : 
Atom  as  whole,  corruption,  shrewdness,  self. 
Freedom  ?    A  juggle  —  hundreds  slave  for  one,  — 
That  one  is  free,  and  boasts,  and  lo  !  the  shame, 
The  hundreds  at  the  wheel  go  boasting  too. 
Justice  ?    The  selfish  only  can  succeed ; 
Success  means  power  —  did  Christ  mean  it  so?  — 


PROMETHEUS— CHRIST.  49 

And  power  must  be  guarded  by  the  law, 

And  preachers  preach  that  law  must  be  obeyed, 

Ay,  even  when  Right  is  ironed  in  the  dock, 

And  Rapine  sits  in  ermine  on  the  bench  ! 

Mercy  ?    Behold  it  in  the  reeking  slums 

That  grow  like  cancers  from  the  palace  wall ; 

Go  hear  it  from  the  conquered  —  how  their  blood 

Is  weighed  in  drops,  and  purchased,  blood  for  gold ; 

Go  ask  the  toiling  tenant  why  he  paid 

The  landlord's  rent  and  let  his  children  starve ; 

Go  find  the  thief,  whose  father  was  a  thief, 

And  ask  what  Christian  leech  has  cured  his  sin  ? 

Honesty  1    Our  law  of  life  is  Gain  — 

We  must  get  gold  or  be  accounted  fools ; 

The  lovable,  the  generous,  must  be  crushed 

And  substituted  by  the  hard  and  shrewd. 

What  is  it,  Christ,  this  thing  called  Christian  life, 
Where  Christ  is  not,  where  ninety  slave  for  ten, 
And  never  own  a  flower  save  when  they  steal  it, 
4 


50  PROMETHEUS— CHRIST. 

And  never  hear  a  bird  save  when  they  cage  it? 
Is  this  the  freedom  of  Thy  truth?    Ah,  woe 
For  those  who  see  a  higher,  nobler  law 
Than  his,  the  Crucified,  if  this  be  so  ! 

O,  man's  blind  hope  —  Prometheus,  thine  the  gift  • 
That  bids  him  live  when  reason  bids  him  die  ! 
We  cling  to  this,  as  sailors  to  a  spar  — 
We  see  that  this  is  Truth :  that  men  are  one, 
Nor  king  nor  slave  among  them  save  by  law ; 
We  see  that  law  is  crime,  save  God's  sweet  code 
That  laps  the  world  in  freedom  :  trees  and  men 
And  every  life  around  us,  days  and  seasons, 
All  for  their  natural  order  on  the  planet, 
To  live  their  lives,  an  hour,  a  hundred  years, 
Equal,  content,  and  free  —  nor  curse  their  souls 
With  trade's  malign  unrest,  with  books  that  breed 
Disparity,  contempt  for  those  who  cannot  read ; 
With  cities  full  of  toil  and  sin  and  sorrow, 
Climbing  the  devil-builded  hill  called  Progress  ! 


PROMETHEUS—  CHRIST.  5  I 

Prometheus,  we  reject  thy  gifts  for  Christ's  ! 
Selfish  and  hard  were  thine ;  but  His  are  sweet  — 
"  Sell  what  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor  !  " 
Him  we  must  follow  to  the  great  Commune, 
Reading  his  book  of  Nature,  growing  wise 
As  planet-men,  who  own  the  earth,  and  pass ; 
Him  we  must  follow  till  foul  Cant  and  Caste 
Die  like  disease,  and  Mankind,  freed  at  last, 
Tramples  the  complex  life  and  laws  and  limits 
That  stand  between  all  living  things  and  Freedom  ! 


"  You  gave  me  the  key  of  your  heart,  my  love; 

Then  why  do  you  make  me  knock  ?  " 
"  O,  that  was  yesterday,  Saints  above  ! 

And  last  night  —  /  changed  the  lock  !  " 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

T  N  the  depths  of  the  silent  wood  the  temple  of 

Friendship  stood, 

Like  a  dream  of  snow-white  stone,  or  a  vestal  all  alone, 
Undraped  beside  a  stream. 

The  pious  from  every  clime  came  there  to  rest  for  a 

time, 
With  incense  and  gifts  and  prayer;  and  the  stainless 

marble  stair 
Was  worn  by  fervent  knees. 

And  everywhere  the  fame  of  the  beautiful  temple  came, 
With  its  altar  white  and  pure,  and  its  worship  to  allure 
From  gods  that  bring  unrest. 


54          THE   TEMPLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  goddess  was  there  to  assuage  (for  this  was  the 

Golden  Age) 
The  trials  of  all  who  staid  and  trustingly  tried  and 

prayed 
For  the  perfect  grace. 

Soldier  and  clerk  and  dame  in  couples  and  companies 

came; 
There  were  few  who  rode  alone,  for  none  feared  the 

other  one, 
So  placid  and  safe  the  creed. 

There  came  from  afar  one  day,  with  a  suite  in  rich 

array, 

A  lady  of  beauty  rare,  who  bent  to  the  plaintive  air 
A  handsome  minstrel  sung. 

Her  face  was  as  calm  and  cold  as  the  stamp  of  a  queen 

on  gold, 
And  the  song  the  poet  sung  to  a  restful  theme  was 

strung, 
A  tranquil  air  of  peace. 


THE   TEMPLE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.          55 

But,  as  they  happily  rode  to  the  holy  and  white  abode, 
They  were  watched  from  a  cloud  above  by  the  mis 
chievous  god  of  Love, 
Who  envied  Friendship's  reign. 

They  dreamt  not  of  danger  near,  and  their  hearts  felt 

no  shade  of  fear, 
As  they  laid  their  rich  offerings  of  flowers  and  precious 

things 
At  Friendship's  lovely  feet. 

They  lingered  long  near  the  shrine,  in  the  air  of  its 

peace  divine ; 
By  the  shadowed  stream  they  strayed,  where  often  the 

heavenly  maid 
Would  smile  upon  their  rest. 

One  day,  with  her  white  robe  flown,  she  passed  like  a 

dream  alone, 
Where  they  sat  in  a  converse  sweet,  with  the  silver 

stream  at  their  feet 
As  still  and  as  wise  as  they. 


56          THE   TEMPLE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

To  the  innermost  temple's  room,  to  the  couch,  and  the 

sacred  loom 
Where  she  weaves  her  placid  will,  the  goddess  came, 

smiling  still, 
Unrobing  for  blissful  rest. 

[old, 
O  lily  of  perfect  mould,  the  world  had  grown  young,  not 

Had  it  bowed  at  thy  milk-white  feet  with  a  love  not 

of  fire,  but  heat,  — 
Sweet  lotus  of  soft  repose  ! 

Like  the  moon  her  body  glows,  like  the  sun-flushed 

Alpine  snows ; 
Her  arms  'neath  her  radiant  head,  she  sleeps,  and  lo  ! 

o'er  her  bed 
The  wicked  Cupid  leans. 

Even  he  cannot  fly  the  feast  which  nor  vestal  nor 

hoary  priest 
Had  ever  enjoyed  before.     But,  stealing  her  robe  from 

the  floor, 
He  dons  it  and  is  gone. 


THE   TEMPLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


57 


By  the  stream,  in  the  silent  shade,  he  walks  where 

the  two  have  made 
Their  resting-place  for  the  noon  :  "  T  is  Friendship  !  " 

they  cry ;  and  soon 
Love's  guile  on  their  hearts  is  laid. 

"  O,  the  goddess  is  good  !  "  she  said,  as  she  bent  her 

golden  head 
And  looked  in  the  minstrel's  face.    "She  stands  by 

our  resting-place 
And  blesses  our  peaceful  love  ! " 

As  she  spoke,  a  flame  shot  through  her  breast,  and  her 

eyes  of  blue 
Grew  moist  with  a  subtle  bliss.     "  Sweet  friend  !  "  she 

cried,  and  her  kiss 
Clung  soft  on  the  poet's  lips. 

"Ah,  me  !"  he  sighed,  "if  they  knew,  those  feverish 
lovers  who  woo 


$8          THE   TEMPLE   OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

For  the  passion  of  tears  and  blood,  how  soothing  and 

pure  and  good 
Is  a  friendly  kiss  —  like  this  !  " 

"O,  list!"  she  cried,  "'tis  a  dove;  he  calls  for  his 

absent  love ; 
They  will  sit  all  day  and  coo  calm  friendship,  like 

mine  for  you,  — 
Dear  friend,  like  mine  for  you  ! " 

Their  hands  were  joined,  and  a  thrill  of  desire  and 

passionate  will 
Brought  his  eyes  her  eyes  above  in  a  marvellous  look 

of  love, 
And  Cupid  smiled  and  drew  near. 

"  O  sweetest !  "  she  whispered  softly.     "  See  !  the  god 
dess  is  leaning  over  me, 

And  smiling  with  eyes  like  yours !     O  Goddess  !  thy 

presence  cures 
The  restful  unrest  of  friends  !  " 


THE   TEMPLE   OF  FRIENDSHIP.         59 

And  Cupid  laughed  in  her  eyes  as  he  threw  off  the 

white  disguise 
And  bent  down  to  kiss  her  himself — but  cuff!  cuff! 

on  the  ears  of  the  elf 
From  the  goddess  who  sought  her  robe. 

And  the  river  flowed  on  through  the  wood,  and  the 

temple  of  Friendship  stood 
Like  a  dream  of  snow-white  stone.    But  the  minstrel 

returned  alone 
From  his  pilgrimage. 


HER  REFRAIN. 

"  TA0  y°u  love  me?"  she  said,  when  the  skies  were 

blue, 
And  we  walked   where    the    stream    through    the 

branches  glistened; 
And  I  told  and  retold  her  my  love  was  true, 

While  she  listened  and  smiled,  and   smiled   and 
listened. 


"Do  you  love  me?"  she  whispered,  when  days  were 
drear, 

And  her  eyes  searched  mine  with  a  patient  yearning ; 
And  I  kissed  her,  renewing  the  words  so  dear, 

While  she  listened  and  smiled,  as  if  slowly  learning. 


HER  REFRAIN.  6 1 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  she  asked,  when  we  sat  at  rest 
By  the  stream  enshadowed  with  autumn  glory  j 

Her  cheek  had  been  laid  as  in  peace  on  my  breast, 
But  she  raised  it  to  ask  for  the  sweet  old  story. 

And  I  said  :  "  I  will  tell  her  the  tale  again  — 

I  will  swear  by  the  earth  and  the  stars  above  me  ! " 
And  I  told  her  that  uttermost  time  should  prove 
The  fervor  and  faith  of  my  perfect  love ; 
And  I  vowed  it  and  pledged  it  that  nought  should 

move; 

While  she  listened  and  smiled  in  my  face,  and  then 
She  whispered  once  more,   "Do  you    truly    love 
me?" 


A  SAVAGE. 

TT^vIXON,  a  Choctaw,  twenty  years  of  age, 

Had  killed  a  miner  in  a  Leadville  brawl ; 
Tried  and  condemned,  the  rough-beards  curb  their 

rage, 
And  watch  him  stride  in  freedom  from  the  hall. 

"  Return  on  Friday,  to  be  shot  to  death  !  " 
So  ran  the  sentence  —  it  was  Monday  night. 

The  dead  man's  comrades  drew  a  well-pleased  breath ; 
Then  all  night  long  the  gambling  dens  were  bright. 

The  days  sped  slowly ;  but  the  Friday  came, 
And  flocked  the  miners  to  the  shooting-ground ; 

They  chose  six  riflemen  of  deadly  aim, 

And  with  low  voices  sat  and  lounged  around. 


A   SAVAGE.  63 

"  He  will  not  come."    "  He  's  not  a  fool."    "  The  men 
Who  set  the  savage  free  must  face  the  blame." 

A  Choctaw  brave  smiled  bitterly,  and  then 

Smiled  proudly,  with  raised  head,  as  Dixon  came. 

Silent  and  stern  —  a  woman  at  his  heels ; 

He  motions  to  the  brave,  who  stays  her  tread. 
Next  minute  —  flame  the  guns  :  the  woman  reels 

And  drops  without  a  moan  —  Dixon  is  dead. 


LOVE'S  SECRET. 

T    OVE  found  them  sitting  in  a  woodland  place, 
His  amorous  hand  amid  her  golden  tresses ; 
And  Love  looked  smiling  on  her  glowing  face 
And  moistened  eyes  upturned  to  his  caresses. 

"  O  sweet,"  she  murmured,  "  life  is  utter  bliss  !  " 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "  our  golden  cup  runs  over  ! " 

"  Drink,  love,"  she  cried, "  and  thank  the  gods  for  this ! " 
He  drained  the  precious  lips  of  cup  and  lover. 

Love  blessed  the  kiss ;  but,  ere  he  wandered  thence, 
The  mated  bosoms  heard  this  benediction  : 

"  Love  lies  within  the  brimming  bowl  of  sense : 

Who  keeps  this  full  has  joy  —  who  drains,  affliction" 


LOVE'S  SECRET.  65 

They  heard  the  rustle  as  he  smiling  fled  : 

She  reached  her  hand  to  pull  the  roses  blowing. 

He  stretched  to  take  the  purple  grapes  o'erhead ; 
Love  whispered  back,  "  Nay,  keep  their  beauties  grow 
ing" 

They  paused,  and  understood  :  one  flower  alone 
They  took  and  kept,  and  Love  flew  smiling  over. 

Their  roses  bloomed,  their  cup  went  brimming  on  — • 
She  looked  for  Love  within,  and  found  her  lover. 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE. 

T    OVE'S  Herald  flew  o'er  all  the  fields  of  Greece, 

Crying :  "  Love's  altar  waits  for  sacrifice  !  " 
And  all  folk  answered,  like  a  wave  of  peace, 
With  treasured  offerings  and  gifts  of  price. 

Toward  high  Olympus  every  white  road  filled 
With  pilgrims  streaming  to  the  blest  abode ; 

Each  bore  rich  tribute,  some  for  joys  fulfilled, 
And  some  for  blisses  lingering  on  the  road. 

The  pious  peasant  drives  his  laden  car  ; 

The  fisher  youth  bears  treasure  from  the  sea ; 
A  wife  brings  honey  for  the  sweets  that  are  ; 

A  maid  brings  roses  for  the  sweets  to  be. 

Here  strides  the  soldier  with  his  wreathed  sword, 
No  more  to  glitter  in  his  country's  wars ; 


LOVES  SACRIFICE.  6/ 

There  walks  the  poet  with  his  mystic  word, 
And  smiles  at  Eros'  mild  recruit  from  Mars. 

But  midst  these  bearers  of  propitious  gifts, 

Behold  where  two,  a  youth  and  maiden,  stand : 

She  bears  no  boon ;  his  arm  no  burden  lifts, 
Save  her  dear  fingers  pressed  within  his  hand. 

Their  touch  ignites  the  soft  delicious  fire, 
Whose  rays  the  very  altar-flames  eclipse ; 

Their  eyes  are  on  each  other  —  sweet  desire 
And  yearning  passion  tremble  on  their  lips. 

So  fair  —  so  strong  !     Ah,  Love  !  what  errant  wiles 
Have  brought  these  two  so  poor  and  so  unblest  ? 

But  see  !     Instead  of  anger,  Cupid  smiles ; 
And  lo  !  he  crowns  their  sacrifice  as  best ! 

Their  hands  are  empty,  but  their  hearts  are  filled ; 

Their  gifts  so  rare  for  all  the  host  suffice  : 
Before  the  altar  is  their  life-wine  spilled  — 

The  love  they  long  for  is  their  sacrifice. 


A  man  will  trust  another  man,  and  show 
His  secret  thought  and  act,  as  if  he  must; 

A  woman  —  does  she  tell  her  sins  ?    Ah,  no  ! 
She  never  knew  a  woman  she  could  trust. 


THE  WELL'S  SECRET. 

T   KNEW  it  all  my  boyhood :  in  a  lonesome  valley 

meadow, 
Like  a  dryad's  mirror  hidden  by  the  wood's  dim 

arches  near ; 
Its  eye  flashed  back  the  sunshine,  and  grew  dark  and 

sad  with  shadow ; 

And  I  loved  its  truthful  depths  where  every  pebble 
lay  so  clear. 

I  scooped  my  hand  and  drank  it,  and  watched  the 

sensate  quiver 
Of  the  rippling  rings  of  silver  as  the  beads  of  crystal 

fell; 

I  pressed  the  richer  grasses  from  its  little  trickling  river, 
Till  at  last  I  knew,  as  friends  know,  every  secret  of 
the  well. 


70  THE   WELLS  SECRET. 

But  one  day  I  stood  beside  it  on  a  sudden,  unexpected, 
When  the  sun  had  crossed  the  valley  and  a  shadow 

hid  the  place ; 
And  I  looked  in  the  dark  water  —  saw  my  pallid  cheek 

reflected  — 

And  beside  it,  looking  upward,  met  an  evil  reptile 
face  : 

Looking  upward,  furtive,  startled  at  the  silent,  swift 

intrusion ; 
Then  it  darted  toward  the  grasses,  and  I  saw  not 

where  it  fled ; 
But  I  knew  its  eyes  were  on  me,  and  the  old-time 

sweet  illusion 

Of  the  pure  and  perfect  symbol  I  had  cherished 
there  was  dead. 

/ 
O,  the  pain  to  know  the  perjury  of  seeming  truth  that 

blesses  ! 

My  soul  was  seared  like  sin  to  see  the  falsehood  of 
the  place ; 


THE   WELLS  SECRET.  7 1 

And  the  innocence  that  mocked  me,  while  in  dim  un 
seen  recesses 

There  were  lurking  fouler  secrets  than  the  furtive 
reptile  face. 

And  since  then,  —  O,  why  the  burden?  —  when  the 

joyous  faces  greet  me, 
With  then:  eyes  of  limpid  innocence,  and  words 

devoid  of  art, 
I  cannot  trust  their  seeming,  but  must  ask  what  eyes 

would  meet  me 

Could  I  look  in  sudden  silence  at  the  secrets  of 
the  heart ! 


JACQUEMINOTS. 

T   MAY  not  speak  in  words,  dear,  but  let  my  words 

be  flowers, 

To  tell  their  crimson  secret  in  leaves  of  fragrant  fire ; 
They  plead  for  smiles  and  kisses  as  summer  fields  for 

showers, 
And  every  purple  veinlet  thrills  with  exquisite  desire. 

O,  let  me  see  the  glance,  dear,  the  gleam  of  soft  con 
fession 
You  give  my  amorous  roses  for  the  tender  hope  they 

prove ; 
And  press  their  heart-leaves  back,  love,  to  drink  their 

deeper  passion, 

For  their  sweetest,  wildest  perfume  is  the  whisper  of 
my  love  ! 


JACQUEMINOTS.  73 

My  roses,  tell  her,  pleading,  all  the  fondness  and  the 

sighing, 
All  the  longing  of  a  heart  that  reaches  thirsting  for 

its  bliss ; 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  roses,  that  my  lips  and  eyes  are 

dying 

For  the  melting  of  her  love-look  and  the  rapture  of 
her  kiss. 


Hunger  goes  sleep  lessly 

Thinking  of  food; 
Evil  lies  painfully 

Yearning  for  good. 
Life  is  a  confluence: 

Nature  must  move, 
Like  the  heart  of  a  poet, 

Toward  beauty  and  love. 


LIVING. 

'THO  toil  all  day  and  lie  worn-out  at  night ; 

To  rise  for  all  the  years  to  slave  and  sleep, 
And  breed  new  broods  to  do  no  other  thing 
In  toiling,  bearing,  breeding  —  life  is  this 
To  myriad  men,  too  base  for  man  or  brute. 

To  serve  for  common  duty,  while  the  brain 
Is  hot  with  high  desire  to  be  distinct ; 
To  fill  the  sand-grain  place  among  the  stones 
That  build  the  social  wall  in  million  sameness, 
Is  life  by  leave,  and  death  by  insignificance. 

To  live  the  morbid  years,  with  dripping  blood 
Of  sacrificial  labor  for  a  Thought ; 
To  take  the  dearest  hope  and  lay  it  down 
Beneath  the  crushing  wheels  for  love  of  Freedom ; 


76  LIVING. 

To  bear  the  sordid  jeers  of  cant  and  trade, 
And  go  on  hewing  for  a  far  ideal,  — 
This  were  a  life  worth  giving  to  a  cause, 
If  cause  be  found  so  worth  a  martyr  life. 

But  highest  life  of  man,  nor  work  nor  sacrifice, 
But  utter  seeing  of  the  things  that  be  ! 
To  pass  amid  the  hurrying  crowds,  and  watch 
The  hungry  race  for  things  of  vulgar  use ; 
To  mark  the  growth  of  baser  lines  in  men ; 
To  note  the  bending  to  a  servile  rule ; 
To  know  the  natural  discord  called  disease 
That  rots  like  rust  the  blood  and  souls  of  men ; 
To  test  the  wisdoms  and  philosophies  by  touch 
Of  that  which  is  immutable,  being  clear, 
The  beam  God  opens  to  the  poet's  brain ; 
To  see  with  eyes  of  pity  laboring  souls 
Strive  upward  to  the  Freedom  and  the  Truth, 
And  still  be  backward  dragged  by  fear  and  igno 
rance  : 


LIVING.  77 

To  see  the  beauty  of  the  world,  and  hear 

The  rising  harmony  of  growth,  whose  shade 

Of  undertone  is  harmonized  decay ; 

To  know  that  love  is  life  —  that  blood  is  one 

And  rushes  to  the  union  —  that  the  heart 

Is  like  a  cup  athirst  for  wine  of  love ; 

Who  sees  and  feels  this  meaning  utterly, 

The  wrong  of  law,  the  right  of  man,  the  natural  truth, 

Partaking  not  of  selfish  aims,  withholding  not 

The  word  that  strengthens  and  the  hand  that  helps ; 

Who  waits  and  sympathizes  with  the  pettiest  life, 

And  loves  all  things,  and  reaches  up  to  God 

With  thanks  and  blessing  —  he  alone  is  living. 


THE  CELEBES. 


"  The  sons  of  God  came  upon  the  earth  and  took  wives  of  the 
daughters  of  men." — Legends  of  the  Talmud. 


1~\  EAR  islands  of  the  Orient, 

^~^   Where  Nature's  first  of  love  was  spent ; 

Sweet  hill-tops  of  the  summered  land 

Where  gods  and  men  went  hand  in  hand 

In  golden  days  of  sinless  earth  ! 

Woe  rack  the  womb  of  time,  that  bore 

The  primal  evil  to  its  birth  ! 

It  came ;  the  gods  were  seen  no  more  : 

The  fields  made  sacred  by  their  feet, 

The  flowers  they  loved,  grown  all  too  sweet, 

The  streams  their  bright  forms  mirrored, 

The  fragrant  banks  that  made  their  bed, 


THE   CELEBES.  79 

The  human  hearts  round  which  they  wove 
Their  threads  of  superhuman  love  — 
These  were  too  dear  and  desolate 
To  sink  to  fallen  man's  estate ; 
The  gods  who  loved  them  loosed  the  seas, 
Struck  free  the  barriers  of  the  deep, 
That  rolled  in  one  careering  sweep 
And  filled  the  land,  as  't  were  a  grave, 
And  left  no  beauteous  remnant,  save 
Those  hill-tops  called  the  Celebes. 


WAITING. 

T  T  E  is  coming  !   he  is  coming !   in  my  throbbing 

breast  I  feel  it ; 

There  is  music  in  my  blood,  and  it  whispers  all  day  long, 
That  my  love  unknown  comes  toward  me  !  Ah,  my  heart, 

he  need  not  steal  it, 
For  I  cannot  hide  the  secret  that  it  murmurs  in  its  song  ! 

O  the  sweet  bursting  flowers  !   how  they  open,  never 

blushing, 
Laying  bare  their  fragrant  bosoms  to  the  kisses  of  the 

sun  ! 
And  the  birds  —  I  thought  't  was  poets  only  read  their 

tender  gushing, 

But  I  hear  their  pleading  stories,  and  I  know  them  every 
one. 


WAITING.  8 1 

"  He  is  coming  !  "  says  my  heart ;  I  may  raise  my  eyes 

and  greet  him ; 
I  may  meet  him  any  moment  —  shall  I  know  him 

when  I  see? 
And  my  heart  laughs  back  the  answer  —  I   can  tell 

him  when  I  meet  him, 

For  our  eyes  will  kiss  and  mingle  ere  he  speaks  a 
word  to  me. 

O,  I  'm  longing  for  his  coming  —  in  the  dark  my  arms 

outreaching ; 

To  hasten  you,  my  love,  see,  I  lay  my  bosom  bare  ! 
Ah,  the  night-wind  !     I  shudder,  and  my  hands  are 

raised  beseeching  — 

It  wailed  so  light  a  death-sigh  that  passed  me  in 
the  air ! 

6 


O,  the  rare  spring  flowers  !  take  them  as  they  come  : 
Do  not  wait  for  summer  buds  —  they  may  never  bloom. 
Every  sweet  to-day  sends  we  are  wise  to  save ; 
Roses  bloom  for  pulling :  the  path  is  to  the  grave. 


A 


WHEAT  GRAINS. 

S  grains  from  chaff,  I  sift  these  worldly  rules, 
Kernels  of  wisdom,  from  the  husks  of  schools 


i. 
Benevolence  befits  the  wisest  mind ; 

But  he  who  has  not  studied  to  be  kind, 
Who  grants  for  asking,  gives  without  a  rule, 
Hurts  whom  he  helps,  and  proves  himself  a  fool. 

ii. 

The  wise  man  is  sincere  :  but  he  who  tries 
To  be  sincere,  hap-hazard,  is  not  wise. 

ni. 

Knowledge  is  gold  to  him  who  can  discern 
That  he  who  loves  to  know,  must  love  to  learn. 


84  WHEAT  GRAINS. 

TV. 

Straightforward  speech  is  very  certain  good  ; 
But  he  who  has  not  learned  its  rule  is  rude. 

v. 

Boldness  and  firmness,  these  are  virtues  each, 
Noble  in  action,  excellent  in  speech. 
But  who  is  bold,  without  considerate  skill, 
Rashly  rebels,  and  has  no  law  but  will ; 
While  he  called  firm,  illiterate  and  crass, 
With  mulish  stubbornness  obstructs  the  pass. 

VI. 

The  mean  of  soul  are  sure  their  faults  to  gloss, 
And  find  a  secret  gain  in  others'  loss. 

VII. 

Applause  the  bold  man  wins,  respect  the  grave ; 
Some,  only  being  not  modest,  think  they  're  brave. 


WHEAT  GRAINS.  85 

VIII. 

The  petty  wrong-doer  may  escape  unseen ; 

But  what  from  sight  the  moon  eclipsed  shall  screen  ? 

Superior  minds  must  err  in  sight  of  men, 

Their  eclipse  o'er,  they  rule  the  world  again. 

IX. 

Temptation  waits  for  all,  and  ills  will  come  ; 
But  some  go  out  and  ask  the  devil  home. 

x. 

"  I  love  God,"  said  the  saint.     God  spake  above  : 
"  Who  loveth  me  must  love  those  whom  I  love." 
"  I  scourge  myself,"  the  hermit  cried.     God  spake  : 
"  Kindness  is  prayer ;  but  not  a  self-made  ache." 


THE   LURE. 

"  \  T  7HAT  bait  do  you  use,"  said  a  Saint  to  the 

^  *  Devil, 

"When  you  fish  where  the  souls  of  men  abound?" 
"Well,  for  special  tastes,"  said  the  King  of  Evil, 

"  Gold  and  Fame  are  the  best  I  Ve  found." 
"  But  for  general  use  ?  "  asked  the  Saint.     "  Ah,  then," 
Said  the  Demon,  "  I  angle  for  Man,  not  men, 
And  a  thing  I  hate 
Is  to  change  my  bait, 
So  I  fish  with  a  woman  the  whole  year  round." 


THE  EMPTY  NICHE. 


Read  at  the  farewell  reception  given  to  Rev.  Robert  Fulton,  S.  J., 
at  Boston  College  Hall,  Feb.  5,  1880. 


A      KING  once  made  a  gallery  of  art, 
•*•*•      With  portraits  of  dead  friends  and  living  graced ; 
And  at  the  end,  'neath  curtains  drawn  apart, 
An  empty  marble  pedestal  was  placed. 

Here,  every  day,  the  king  would  come,  and  pace 
With  eyes  well-pleased  along  the  statued  hall ; 

But,  ere  he  left,  he  turned  with  saddened  face, 
And  mused  before  the  curtained  pedestal. 

And  once  a  courtier  asked  him  why  he  kept 
The  shadowed  niche  to  fill  his  heart  with  dole ; 

"  For  absent  friends,"  the  monarch  said,  and  wept  ; 
"  There  still  must  be  one  absent  to  the  soul." 


88  THE  EMPTY  NICHE. 

And  this  is  true  of  all  the  hearts  that  beat ; 

Though  days  be  soft  and  summer  pathways  fair, 
Be  sure,  while  joyous  glances  round  us  meet, 

The  curtained  crypt  and  vacant  plinth  are  there. 

To-day  we  stand  before  our  draped  recess  : 
There  is  none  absent  —  all  we  love  are  here ; 

To-morrow's  hands  the  opening  curtains  press, 
And  lo,  the  pallid  pediment  is  bare  ! 

The  cold  affection  that  plain  duty  breeds 
May  see  its  union  severed,  and  approve  ; 

But  when  our  bond  is  touched,  it  throbs  and  bleeds 
We  pay  no  meed  of  duty,  but  of  love. 

As  creeping  tendrils  shudder  from  the  stone, 
The  vines  of  love  avoid  the  frigid  heart ; 

The  work  men  do  is  not  their  test  alone, 
The  love  they  win  is  far  the  better  chart. 


THE  EMPTY  NICHE.  89 

They  say  the  citron-tree  will  never  thrive 

Transplanted  from  the  soil  where  it  matured ; 

Ah,  would  't  were  so  that  men  could  only  live 

Through  working  on  where  they  had  love  secured  ! 

"The  People  of  the  Book,"  men  called  the  Jews  — 
Our  priests  are  truly  "  People  of  the  Word ; " 

And  he  who  serves  the  Master  must  not  choose  — 
He  renders  feudal  service  to  the  Lord. 

But  we  who  love  and  lose  will,  like  the  king, 

Still  keep  the  alcove  empty  in  the  hall, 
And  hope,  firm-hearted,  that  some  day  will  bring 

Our  absent  one  to  fill  his  pedestal. 


Soldier,  why  do  you  shrink  from  the  hiss  of  the  hungry 

lead? 
The  bullet  that  whizzed  is  past :  the  approaching  ball 

is  dumb. 
Stand  straight !  you  cannot  shrink  from  Fate :  let  it 

come  ! 

A  comrade  in  front  may  hear  it  whiz  —  when  you  are 
dead. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS. 

\  T  7  HAT  song  is  best  for  the  soldiers  ? 

Take  no  heed  of  the  words,  nor  choose  you 

the  style  of  the  story ; 
Let  it  burst  out  from  the  heart  like  a  spring  from  the 

womb  of  a  mountain, 

Natural,  clear,  resistless,  leaping  its  way  to  the  levels  j 
Whether  of  love  or  hate  or  war  or  the  pathos  and  pain 

of  affliction ; 
Whether  of  manly  pluck  in  the  perilous  hour,  or  that 

which  is  higher, 

And  highest  of  all,  the  slowly  bleeding  sacrifice, 
The  giving  of  life  and  its  joys  for  the  sake  of  men 

and  freedom ;  — 


92  A   SONG  FOR   THE  SOLDIERS. 

Any  song  for  the  soldier  that  will  harmonize  with  the 

life-throbs ; 
For  he  has  laved  in  the  mystical  sea  by  which  men  are 

one; 
His  pulse  has  thrilled  into  blinding  tune  with  the  vaster 

anthems 
Which  God  plays  on  the  battle-fields  when  He  sweeps 

the  strings  of  nations, 
And  the  song  of  the  earth-planet  bursts  on  the  silent 

spheres, 
Shot  through  like  the  cloud  of  Etna  with  flames  of 

heroic  devotion, 
And  shaded  with  quivering  lines  from  the  mourning  of 

women  and  children  ! 


Here  is  a  song  for  the  soldiers  —  a  song  of  the  Chey 
enne  Indians, 

Of  men  with  soldierly  hearts  who  walked  with  Death 
as  a  comrade. 


A   SONG  FOR   THE  SOLDIERS.  93 

Hush  !     Let  the  present  fade  j  let  the  distance  die ;  let 

the  last  year  stand  : 
We  are  far  to  the  West,  in  Montana,  on  the  desolate 

plains  of  Montana ; 
We  ride  with  the  cavalry  troopers  on  the  bloody  trail 

of  the  Cheyennes, 
Forty  braves  of  the  tribe  who  have  leaped  from  the 

reservation 
Down    on    the    mining    camps    in   their   desecrated 

valleys, 
Down  to  their  fathers'  graves  and  the  hunting-ground 

of  their  people. 


Chilled  with  the  doom  of  Death  they  gaze  on  the 

white  men's  changes : 
Ruthless  the  brutal  force  that  has  crushed  their  homes 

and  their  manhood, 
And  ruthless  the  hearts  of  the  Cheyenne  braves  as 

they  swoop  on  the  camps  of  the  miners  ! 


94  A   SONG  FOR   THE  SOLDIERS. 

Back  to  the  hills  they  dash,  with  reeking  trophies 
around  them : 

But  swift  on  their  trail  the  cavalry  ride,  and  their 
trumpets 

Break  on  the  ears  of  the  braves  with  a  threat  of  on 
coming  vengeance. 

At  last  they  are  bayed  and  barred  —  corralled  in  a 

straight-walled  valley,  — 
The  Indians  back  to  the  cliffs  with  the  shattered  rocks 

as  a  breastwork, 
The  soldiers  in  lined  stockades  across  the  mouth  of 

the  valley. 

Hungrily  hiss  the  bullets,  not  wasted  in  random  firing, 
But  every  shot  for  a  mark,  —  thrice  their  number  of 

soldiers 
Raking  the   Cheyenne  rocks  with  a  pitiless  rain   of 

missiles, 


A   SONG  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS,  95 

One  to  three  in  the  firing,  but  every  Cheyenne  bullet 
Tumbled  a  reckless  trooper  behind  his  fence  in  the 
stockade. 


"  God  !  they  are  brave  !  "  cried  the  captain.     "  Seven 

hours  we  Ve  held  them, 
Three,  ay,  five  to  one,  if  you  count  their  dead  and 

their  wounded : 
Damn  them  !  why  don't  they  yield  for  the  sake  of 

their  lives  and  their  wounded?" 


But  never  a  sign  but  flame  and  the  hiss  of  the  leaden 

defiance 
Comes  from  the  Cheyenne  braves,  though  their  firing 

slackens  in  vigor 
To  grow  in  fatal  precision  —  grim  as  the  cliff  above 

them 
They  fight  their  fight,  and  the  valley  is  lined  with  death 

from  their  rifles. 


96  A   SONG  FOR   THE  SOLDIERS. 

Cried  the  captain,  "  Men,  we  must  charge  ! "  and  he 
grieves  for  his  boys  and  their  foernen  ; 

"But  show  them  a  sign  of  quarter;"  and  he  swings 
them  a  flag  to  tell  them 

That  his  side  is  willing  to  parley :  the  Indians  riddle 
the  ensign, 

And  the  captain  groans  in  his  heart  as  he  gives  the 
order  for  charging. 

Terrible  getting  ready  of  men  who  prepare  for  a  death- 
fight  :  — 

Scabbards  are  thr6wn  aside  and  belts  unstrapped  for 
the  striking, 

Ominous  outward  signs  of  the  deadlier  inner  pre 
paring 

When  the  soul  flings  danger  aside  and  the  human  heart 
its  mercy. 


Out  from  the  fatal  earthworks,  their  eyes  like  fire  in  a 
cavern, 


A   SONG  FOR   THE  SOLDIERS.  97 

With  naked  blades  the  troopers,  and  nerves  wire-strung 

for  the  onset, 
When  suddenly,  up  from  the  rocks,  a  sign  at  last  from 

the  Cheyennes  ! 

Two  tall  braves  on  the  rocks  —  "  Re-form  ! "  brays  the 

cavalry  trumpet, 
And  grimly  the  soldiers  return,  reluctantly  leaving  the 

conflict. 
Still  on  the  rocks  two  forms  of  bronze,  as  if  prepared 

for  the  stormers, 
Then  down  to  the  field,  and  behold,  they  dash  toward 

the  wondering  troopers  ! 
The  soldiers  stare  at  the  charge,  but  no  man  laughs 

at  the  foemen, 

Instead  of  a  sneer  a  tremor  at  many  a  mouth  in  sorrow. 
On  they  come  to  their  death,  and,  standing  at  fifty 

paces, 
They  fire  in  the  face  of  the  squadron,  and  dash  with 

their  knives  to  the  death-grip  ! 
7 


98  A   SONG  FOR   THE  SOLDIERS. 

Fifty  rifles  give  flame,  and  the  breasts  of  the  heroes 

are  shattered ; 
But  falling,  they  plunge   toward  the   fight,  and  their 

knives  sink  deep  in  the  meadow  ! 

"  On  to  the  rocks  !  "  and  the  soldiers  have  done  with 

their  feelings  of  mercy  — 
But  never  a  foe  to  meet  them  nor  a  shot  from  the 

deadly  barrier. 
First  on  the  rocks  the  captain,  with  a  cheer  that  died 

as  he  gave  it,  — 

A  cheer  that  was  half  a  groan  and  a  cry  of  admiration. 
Awed  stood  the  troopers  who  followed,  and  lowered 

their  swords  with  their  leader, 
Homage  of  brave  to  the  brave,  saluting  with  souls  and 

weapons ; 
There  at  their  feet  lay  the  foemen  —  every  man  dead 

on  his  rifle  — 
The  two  who  had  charged  the  troops  were  the  last 

alive  of  the  Cheyennes  ! 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 
(PENAL  COLONY  OF  WESTERN  AUSTRALIA,  1857. 

'TTVHE  sun  rose  o'er  dark  Fremantle, 
And  the  Sentry  stood  on  the  wall  j 
Above  him,  with  white  lines  swinging, 
The  flag-staff,  bare  and  tall  : 
The  flag  at  its  foot  —  the  Mutiny  Flag  — 
Was  always  fast  to  the  line,  — 
For  its  sanguine  field  was  a  cry  of  fear, 
And  the  Colony  counted  an  hour  a  year 
In  the  need  of  the  blood-red  sign. 

The  staff  and  the  line,  with  its  ruddy  flash, 
Like  a  threat  or  an  evil-bode, 
Were  a  monstrous  whip  with  a  crimson  lash, 
Fit  sign  for  the  penal  code. 


100       THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 

The  Sentry  leant  on  his  rifle,  and  stood 
By  the  mast,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath ; 
A  stern-browed  man,  but  there  heaved  a  sigh 
For  the  sight  that  greeted  his  downward  eye 
In  the  prison-square  beneath. 

In  yellow  garb,  in  soldier  lines, 

One  hundred  men  in  chains ; 

While  the  watchful  warders,  sword  in  hand, 

With  eyes  suspicious  keenly  scanned 

The  links  of  the  living  lanes. 

There,  wary  eyes  met  stony  eyes, 

And  stony  face  met  stone. 

There  was  never  a  gleam  of  trust  or  truce ; 

In  the  covert  thought  of  an  iron  loose, 

Grim  warder  and  ward  were  one. 

Why  was  it  so,  that  there  they  stood,  — 
Stern  driver  and  branded  slave  ? 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  CHAINS.         IOI 

Why  rusted  the  gyve  in  the  bondman's  blood, 
No  hope  for  him  but  the  grave  ? 
Out  of  thousands  there  why  was  it  so 
That  one  hundred  hearts  must  feel 
The  bitterest  pang  of  the  penal  woe, 
And  the  grind  of  a  nation's  heel? 


Why,  but  for  choice  —  the  bondman's  choice  ? 

They  balanced  the  gains  and  pains ; 

They  took  their  chance  of  the  chains. 

There  spake  in  their  hearts  a  hidden  voice 

Of  the  blinding  joy  of  a  freeman's  burst 

Through  the  great  dim  woods.    Then  the  toil  accurst ; 

The  scorching  days  and  the  nights  in  tears  • 

The  riveted  rings  for  years  and  years ; 

They  weighed  them  all  —  they  looked  before 

At  the  one  and  other,  and  spoke  them  o'er, 

And  they  saw  what  the  heart  of  man  must  see, 

That  the  uttermost  blessing  is  Liberty  ! 


102       THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 

Ah,  pity  them,  God  !  they  must  always  choose, 
For  the  life  to  gain  and  the  death  to  lose. 
They  dream  of  the  woods  and  the  mountain  spring, 
And  they  grasp  the  flower,  to  clutch  the  sting. 


Even  so  :  they  are  better  than  those  who  bend 

Like  beasts  to  the  lash,  and  go  on  to  the  end 

As  a  beast  will  go,  with  to-day  for  a  life, 

And  to-morrow  a  blank.     Offer  peace  and  strife 

To  a  man  enslaved  —  let  him  vote  for  ease 

And  coward  labor,  and  be  content ; 

Or  let  him  go  out  in  the  front,  as  these, 

With  their  eyes  on  the  doom  and  the  danger,  went. 

And  take  your  choice  —  the  man  who  remains 

A  self-willed  serf,  or  the  one  who  stains 

His  sudden  hand  with  a  drive  for  light 

Through  a  bristling  rank  and  a  gloomy  night. 

This  man  for  me  —  for  his  heart  he  '11  share 

With  a  friend :  with  a  foe,  he  '11  fight  him  fair. 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  CHAINS.       103 

And  such  as  he  are  in  every  rank 

Of  the  column  that  moves  with  a  dismal  clank 

And  a  dead-march  step  toward  the  rock-bound  place 

Where  the  chain-gangs  toil  —  o'er  the  beetling  face 

Of  the  cliff  that  roots  in  the  Swan's  deep  tide  : 

Steep  walls  of  granite  on  either  side, 

At  the  precipice'  foot  the  river  wide ; 

Behind  them  in  ranks  the  warders  fall ; 

And  above  them,  the  Sentry  paces  the  wall. 

Year  in,  year  out,  has  the  Sentry  stood 

On  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  mast. 

He  has  turned  from  the  toilers  to  watch  the  flood 

Like  his  own  slow  life  go  past. 

He  has  noted  the  Chains  grow  fat  and  lean  ; 

He  has  sighed  for  their  empty  spaces, 

And  thought  of  the  cells  where  their  end  had  been, 

Where  they  lay  with  their  poor  dead  faces, 

With  never  a  kiss,  or  prayer,  or  knell  — 

They  were  better  at  rest  in  the  river ; 


104       THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 

He  thinks  of  the  shadow  that  o  'er  them  fell 
From  the  mast  with  its  whip-like  quiver ; 
He  has  seen  it  tipped  with  its  crimson  lash 
When  the  mutiny-flood  had  risen 
And  swept  like  a  sea  with  an  awful  swash 
Through  the  squares  and  the  vaulted  prison. 
His  thoughts  are  afar  with  the  woful  day, 
With  the  ranged  dead  men  and  the  dying, 
And  slowly  he  treads  till  they  pass  away 


Then  a  pause,  and  a  start,  and  a  scuffling  sound, 

And  a  glance  beneath,  at  a  battle-ground, 

Where  the  lines  are  drawn,  and  the  Chains  are  found 

Their  armed  guards  defying  ! 

A  hush  of  death  —  and  the  Sentry  stands 

By  the  mast,  with  the  halyards  tight  in  his  hands, 

And  the  Mutiny  Flag  is  flying  ! 

Woe  to  the  weak,  to  the  mutineers  ! 
The  bolt  of  their  death  is  driven ; 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS.       105 

A  mercy  waits  on  all  other  tears, 

But  the  Chains  are  never  forgiven. 

Woe  to  the  rebels  !  —  their  hands  are  bare, 

Their  manacled  bodies  helpless  there ; 

Their  faces  lit  with  a  strange  wild  light, 

As  if  they  had  fought  and  had  won  the  fight ! 

No  cry  is  uttered  —  upraised  no  hand ; 

All  stilled  to  a  muscle's  quiver ; 

One  line  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  they  stand, 

Their  shadows  flung  down  on  the  river. 

The  quarry  wall  is  on  either  side, 

The  blood-red  flag  high  o'er  them ; 

But  the  lurid  light  in  their  eyes  defied 

The  gathering  guards  before  them. 

No  parley  is  held  when  the  Chains  revolt : 

Grimly  silent  they  stand  secure 

On  the  outward  lip  of  the  embrasure  ; 

Waiting  fierce-eyed  for  the  fatal  bolt. 

A  voice  from  the  guard,  in  a  monotone ; 


106       THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 

A  voice  that  was  cold  and  hard  as  stone  :  — 

"  Make  ready  !     Fire  !  " 

O  Christ,  the  cry 

From  the  manacled  men  !  not  fear  to  die, 
Or  whine  for  mercy ;  rebelled  they  stood, 
Well  knowing  the  price  of  revolt  was  blood ; 
Well  knowing  —  but  each  one  knew  that  he 
Would  sell  his  blood  for  his  liberty  ! 

Unwarned  by  a  word,  uncalled,  unshriven, 
They  dare  by  a  look  —  and  the  doom  is  given. 
They  raise  their  brows  in  the  wild  revolt, 
And  God's  wrath  flames  in  the  fierce  death-bolt ; 
God's  wrath  ?  —  nay,  man's ;  God  never  smote 
A  rebel  dead  whose  swelling  throat 
Was  full  with  protest.     Hear,  then  smite ; 
God's  justice  weighs  not  shrieks  the  right. 

"Make  ready  !     Fire  !  " 

Again  outburst 

The  horror  and  shame  for  the  deed  accurst ! 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS.       IO/ 

O,  cry  of  the  weak,  as  the  hot  blood  calls 
From  the  burning  wound,  and  the  stricken  falls 
With  his  face  in  the  dust ;  and  the  strong  one  stands, 
With  scornful  lips  and  ensanguined  hands ; 
O,  blood  of  the  weak,  unbought,  unpriced, 
Thy  smoke  is  a  piteous  prayer  to  Christ ! 

They  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff —  they  bend 
To  the  dead  in  their  chains ;  then  rise,  and  send 
To  the  murdering  muzzles  defiant  eyes. 

"  Make  ready  !     Fire  !  " 

The  smoke-clouds  rise : 

They  are  still  on  the  face  of  the  cliff —  they  bend 
Once  more  to  the  dead  —  they  whisper  a  word 
To  the  hearts  in  the  dust  —  then,  undeterred, 
They  raise  their  faces,  so  grimly  set, 
Till  the  eyes  of  slayer  and  doomed  have  met. 
O  merciful  God,  let  thy  pity  rain 
Ere  the  hideous  lightning  leaps  again  ! 


108       THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 

They  have  sinned  —  they  have  erred  —  let  the  living 

stand  — 

They  have  dared  and  rued  —  let  thy  loving  hand 
Be  laid  on  those  brows  that  bravely  face 
The  death  that  shall  wash  them  of  all  disgrace  ! 
Be  swift  with  pity  —  O,  late,  too  late  ! 
The  tubes  are  levelled  —  the  marksmen  wait 
For  the  word  of  doom  —  the  spring  is  pressed 
By  the  nervous  finger  —  the  sight  is  straight  — 
"  Make  ready  !"  — 

Why  falters  the  dread  command  ? 
Why  stare  as  affrighted  the  armed  band? 
Why  lower  the  rifles  from  shoulder  to  hip, 
Why  dies  the  word  on  the  leader's  lip, 
While  the  voice  that  was  hard  grows  husky  deep, 
And  the  face  is  a-tremble  as  if  to  weep  ? 

The  Chains  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  are  lined  ; 
The  living  are  bowed  o  'er  the  dead  —  they  rise 
And  they  face  the  rifles  with  burning  eyes ; 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS.       109 

Then  they  bend  again,  and  with  one  set  mind 

They  raise  the  dead  and  the  wounded  raise 

In  their  loving  arms  with  words  of  praise 

And  tender  grief  for  the  torturing  wounds. 

One  backward  step  with  a  burdened  tread  — 

They  bear  toward  the  precipice  wounded  and  dead  — 

Then  they  turned  on  the  cliff  to  front  the  guard 

With  faces  like  m.en  that  have  died  in  fight ; 

Their  brows  were  raised  as  if  proud  reward 

Were  theirs,  and  their  eyes  had  a  victor's  light. 

They  spoke  not  a  word,  but  stood  sublime 

In  their  sombre  strength,  and  the  watchers  saw 

That  they  smiled  as  they  looked,  and  their  words  were 

heard 
As  they  spoke  to  the  dying  a  loving  word. 

They  were  Men  at  last  —  they  knew  naught  of  crime  ; 
They  were  masters  and  makers  of  life  and  law. 
They  turned  from  the  guard  that  quailed  and  shrank 


1 10       THE  MUTINY  OF  THE   CHAINS. 

From  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the  burdened  rank ; 
They  turned  on  the  cliff,  and  a  sob  was  heard 
As  they  looked  far  down  on  the  darkened  river ; 
They  raised  their  eyes  to  the  sky  —  they  grasped 
The  dead  to  their  breasts,  while  the  wounded  clasped 
The  necks  of  the  brothers  who  bore  their  weight  — 
Then  they  sprang  from  the  cliff,  as  a  horse  will  spring 
For  his  life  from  a  precipice  —  sprang  to  death 
In  silence  and  sternness  —  one  deep  breath, 
As  they  plunged,  of  liberty,  thrilled  their  souls, 
And  then  —  the  Chains  were  at  rest  forever  ! 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


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